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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27960308">The Finest Thing (Whatever It Is One Loves)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/booksnchocolate/pseuds/booksnchocolate'>booksnchocolate</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>5+1 Things, Damen is Utterly in Love with his Husband, Established Relationship, Flirting, Fluff, Laurent is Bad at Feelings, Love Confessions, M/M, Nikandros is a Good Friend, POV Laurent (Captive Prince), Romance</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 14:21:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,709</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27960308</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/booksnchocolate/pseuds/booksnchocolate</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><i>They were mocking him. “Stay put,” Laurent hissed under his breath as he nestled the flowers together in the vase for the tenth time. Damen would be back any minute and –</i><br/><br/><i>“Laurent?”</i><br/><i><br/><b>Fuck.</b><br/></i><br/>Laurent tries to woo Damen. It goes about as well as expected.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Damen/Laurent (Captive Prince), Laurent &amp; Nikandros (Captive Prince)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>231</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Fandom Trumps Hate 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Finest Thing (Whatever It Is One Loves)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is a gift fic for Jana, who asked for "something short and sweet about Laurent trying to woo Damen" as part of Fandom Trumps Hate 2020! </p><p>Huge thanks to <a href="/users/pipisafoat">pipisafoat</a> for the beta work! It was an absolute pleasure working with you and I'm grateful for all your feedback.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <ol>
<li><strong>Books</strong></li>
</ol><p>It looked, Laurent had to admit, very handsome. The red leather of the binding fairly gleamed in the low light, and the lettering, embossed with gold leaf, was flawless. It was only made more beautiful by the fact that Damen was holding it, a quizzical expression on his face as he studied the tome.</p><p>“<em>Military Tactics of the Known World</em>,” he read the title aloud, turning the book over to examine the neat lettering on the spine. “The only known copy of this book is in the royal library in Patras. How did it end up here?”</p><p>Laurent shrugged, affecting ignorance. “Surely, there is a note from your admirer?” In truth, it had not been hard to guess at Damen’s preferred reading material. Though less bookish than Laurent in his youth, his tutors had obviously made an impact; the few trunks of books Damen had had carted from Ios to the fresh capital of New Artes all concerned great battles of history; the strategies and tactics used therein; the weapons, training, and preparation of the empires involved; and many other details about feats of bravery and – knowing Damen – needless heroics. No doubt, Laurent thought, it was all very enthralling, but no material in those books or any other could compare to the bright, knowing look in Damen’s eye or the way his cheeks dimpled when he smiled.</p><p>“It must have taken ages to find this,” he said, dragging Laurent from his reverie.</p><p>“You don’t know that it was me,” Laurent retorted automatically.</p><p>Damen only raised one eyebrow, grinning in the way that never failed to make Laurent’s traitorous heart skip a beat. “And I am to believe that there is someone else who would write: <em>To Damianos, may this inspire you to better antics than using your sword as a javelin.</em>” His voice was rich with amusement and something deeper – fondness, which made Laurent’s stomach swoop in a not-entirely unpleasant way.</p><p>Laurent felt his cheeks heat despite himself.  He examined his nails, affecting nonchalance. “I may have made some enquiries about it when we were last in Ios.”</p><p>Damen examined the book again, turning the pages delicately. “This is not of Akielon make,” he said at last. There was an unspoken question in his tone.</p><p>Laurent blew out a frustrated breath. Trust Damen to get right to the heart of it. “Fine,” he snapped, embarrassment – at his words, at the effort he’d gone to, at the soft, rapid beating of his heart – making his temper short, “I had it ordered from Patras, where it was translated from the original dialect.”</p><p>When he looked up, Damen was staring at him. “That must have taken months.”</p><p>“And?”</p><p>“Thank you,” Damen said simply, continuing to gaze at him. There was a softness in his eyes that shook Laurent to his core. “I love it.”</p><p>He wasn’t just talking about the book; Laurent knew he wasn’t just talking about the book. <em>Say it!</em> his mind screeched at him. <em>Say the words!</em> But his jaw was locked. “Good,” he managed, unable to soften his tone or his expression.</p><p>If Damen minded, he gave no indication, continuing to page through the book with reverent hands. “This is fascinating,” he said after a moment. “Did you know that in the first of the winter wars between Vask and Patras, the Vaskians’ use of mounted raiding parties kept the Patrans at bay for four weeks, despite the Patrans outnumbering them nearly twelve to one?”</p><p>“I do now.” He meant it to come out just on the verge of sarcasm – because of course Damen would dive head-first into the battles – but the fondness in his chest leaked into his voice somehow.</p><p>Damen closed the book and smiled at him. “It’s wonderful. I can’t wait to read it.”</p><p>A warm, giddy feeling rose in Laurent’s chest at the light in Damen’s eyes. He knew it must show on his face, yet he could not bring himself to care. In the distance, he swore he could hear bells. “I’ll look forward to being inundated with the specifications of siege engines and catapults, then.”</p><p>Damen chuckled, rich and low. “I’d rather inundate you with kisses,” he said. “Come here.”</p><p>“Your lines are terrible,” Laurent told him, but he found he was smiling despite himself, already moving towards his husband without conscious thought. “Maybe you should read more books to improve your mind.”</p><p>There was more to add, he was sure of it, but Damen’s hand was already on shoulder, and Damen’s lips were already on his, and the verbal repartee suddenly didn’t seem as important as the heat singing under his skin at Damen’s touch.  It was fine, he told himself as he gave himself over to the sweet fire kindling in his belly. It was fine that he hadn’t said the words this time. He would simply have to find another way.</p>
<ol>
<li><strong>Flowers</strong></li>
</ol><p>They were mocking him. “Stay put,” Laurent hissed under his breath as he nestled the mass of tangled stems and vibrant leaves together in the vase for the tenth time. Damen would be back any minute and –</p><p>“Laurent?”</p><p>
  <em>Fuck.</em>
</p><p>Damen was peering at him from the entrance to their chambers. “The meeting is due to begin any minute. We should – what’s that?”</p><p>Laurent whirled around, putting his back to the vase. The leaves pricked and caught on the delicate embroidery of his clothes. “Nothing,” he said, and winced internally. He hadn’t been caught in a lie that bad since Auguste had found him sneaking the last of the cherry tarts from the winter feast when he was twelve.</p><p>Damen stepped fully into the room, his sandals soft on the patterned tile floor. Laurent shifted to try unsuccessfully to block his view, cursing the inches Damen had on him in height. “Flowers?”</p><p>A thousand responses jostled for position in Laurent’s mind: <em>The servants sent them</em>, and <em>our chambers needed more colour</em>, and <em>flowers? Where?</em> What came out was the truth. “I thought you’d like them.”</p><p>Confusion was written into the crease of Damen’s brow. “I do like them,” he said immediately.</p><p>“Liar,” Laurent said, “you haven’t even looked at them.”</p><p>“Only because my husband is standing in the way, and I would much rather look at you.”</p><p>Laurent tried to level him with an unimpressed look, knowing it was ruined by the flush he could feel creeping up his cheeks. He stepped aside.</p><p>“They’re beautiful,” Damen said. And they were: sunny marigolds, blushing hydrangeas, lilies whose delicate petals turned from white to dusky pink, with small, sweet orange blossoms sprinkled throughout, filling the room with their gentle scent. It was an eruption of colour. “I never took you as one for flowers.”</p><p><em>They’re not for me</em>, Laurent wanted to say scathingly. <em>I am wooing you, you giant dolt. Or are you too much of a barbarian to understand that? </em>But something told him that was not very courtly behaviour. He clamped his jaw shut. “I have hidden depths,” he finally managed.</p><p>Damen was looking at him oddly. “That you do.”</p><p>Laurent wished – for a brief, blinding moment – that Auguste were here. He would know what to do. Well, Laurent amended, after teasing him mercilessly about it first.</p><p>Damen suddenly stepped forward and engulfed him in a hug. The world was eclipsed by strong arms, by solid muscle shifting under smooth brown skin, by the heat of Damen’s body as he - </p><p>“What?” Laurent demanded peevishly. “What are you – are you <em>sniffing</em> me?”</p><p>“You smell nice,” Damen said, voice muffled where his face was buried in the juncture of Laurent’s neck and shoulder.</p><p>Laurent’s hands fluttered helplessly and came to rest on the broad expanse of Damen’s shoulders. “Oh? And what do I smell like?”</p><p>“Flowers,” Damen said, and kissed him.</p><p>They didn’t make it to the meeting.</p>
<ol>
<li><strong>Music</strong></li>
</ol><p>“You play like shit,” Nikandros said from where he was lounging on a nearby chair. “The most talentless child in Akielos is better at this than you.”</p><p>“Shut up,” Laurent snapped, pausing to press the sore fingers of his right hand into his palm. “It’s not my fault this instrument was designed by barbarians.”</p><p>It was, he thought, rather beautiful, all things considered. The dark shell of the body gleamed in the light, and the two arms curved upwards to the crossbar with a sinuous grace. The strings – made from catgut, Nikandros had told him – stretched taut and inviting, as if ready to release harmonious music at the slightest touch.</p><p>But not for him, apparently.</p><p>“Again,” Nikandros nodded at him. “Strum the strings gently. The notes should flow from each other; you’re just making dissonant noise.”</p><p>Laurent scowled but repositioned the lyre and readied the small bone pick to the strings. “All the words from your mouth are just dissonant noise,” he said, and started to play before Nikandros could respond.</p><p>It was supposed to be a simple, lyrical melody and Laurent repeated the notes to himself as he strummed. First string, fifth string, middle string, first again. Yet no matter how carefully he plucked the strings, the notes that came from the lyre sounded flat and dull. Chancing a look up at the end of the phrase, Laurent had his suspicions confirmed: Nikandros looked like he was chewing on glass. Laurent sighed. “Just say it,” he said. “I know my playing leaves much to be desired.”</p><p>But Nikandros only frowned harder. “That’s not – it does,” he agreed. Then, after a moment’s pause: “But it is admirable, what you are doing. Learning this, for him.”</p><p>He spoke with an openness that blindsided Laurent. Forcing a neutral expression, Laurent replied. “Contrary to what you may think, I do feel deeply for my husband.”</p><p>“I know,” Nikandros was looking at him earnestly now. “I have misjudged you.”</p><p>Whatever Laurent had been expecting, it wasn’t that. He blinked, surprised. “Be careful,” he said, once he trusted his voice, “with overtures like that, we might end up becoming friends.”</p><p>“I have spent the last hour willingly listening to you butcher my childhood memories on the lyre. I think we are already friends.”</p><p>Laurent twanged a string just to make him wince.</p><p>The lessons continued apace for several weeks. Gradually, Laurent gained facility with the lyre. The notes he plucked rang true, and he was able to carry a simple melody easily – or at least, easily enough to stop Nikandros complaining that his ears were bleeding, which Laurent personally felt was a victory of some merit. They met weekly in the place that, by unspoken agreement, they both knew Damen would never think to look for Laurent: Nikandros’ rooms. They took care to make sure their meetings were always at a time Damen was in the training yard, when he would be too distracted by the clash and clang of weapons to give much thought to the faltering melodies coming from the guest wing.</p><p>
  <strong>+ </strong>
</p><p>When he had first broached the subject with Nikandros and seen the blatant disbelief written on the man’s face, a kernel of doubt had settled in Laurent’s stomach. It was true that he and Nikandros held no particular regard for each other, and took counsel together only out of pragmatism and the desire not to see the newly formed empire struck down in its infancy by civil war.</p><p>“I am sure you could ask a dozen other Akielons for help with this,” Nikandros had said when Laurent approached him. “Some of them you might not even have to threaten first. Why did you pick me?”</p><p>“Because I want you to suffer,” Laurent informed him archly and smothered a smirk as Nikandros rolled his eyes heavenward. He was almost too easy to rile up sometimes.</p><p>Nikandros had opened his mouth to protest – it was in the set of his brow, the downward twist of his lips – but Laurent spoke first. “Do this for me,” he said, “and I will owe you a favour.”</p><p>“I am not asking for a favour; I am asking for a truthful answer.” Nikandros had not raised his voice but his words rang in Laurent’s ears. His eyes were dark and resolute.</p><p>Laurent swallowed down the dozen acerbic retorts that clamoured at his lips. “You grew up together; you are as close as brothers.” (“Closer,” Nikandros muttered under his breath, and Laurent didn’t need to see his scowl to know he was cursing Kastor.) “You know him.” He paused. “And you will not be afraid to criticize my playing.”</p><p>“If you play anything like you talk, I can hardly see myself doing anything else,” Nikandros had said. And then: “Meet in my quarters, tomorrow morning when he’s at the training yard.”</p><p>Multiple barbed rejoinders had clawed up Laurent’s throat but he had forced them down, merely inclining his head before sweeping away, taking Nikandros’ acquiescence as the victory it was.</p><p>
  <strong>+</strong>
</p><p>Now, Nikandros sat across from him in a low chair tapping his fingers in silent accompaniment as Laurent picked his way through the song. He swept the last note with a flourish, the low sound humming in the air briefly before fading.</p><p>“You’ve improved,” said Nikandros evenly, leaning back in his chair. “One day, you may even achieve mediocrity.”</p><p>The words were harsh but the tone lacked the ice-rimed animosity that had characterized their earliest sessions. Laurent hummed softly. “I wonder what it says about my teacher that mediocrity is the best I can hope for.”</p><p>Nikandros snorted, shaking his head. “You’re insufferable; has anyone ever told you that?”</p><p>“You, on multiple occasions. And yet you continue to suffer me.”</p><p>“Yes, well,” Nikandros cleared his throat before anything like fondness could enter his tone, “now that you have demonstrated the ability to carry the simplest of melodies with the lyre, we need to think about the lyrics.”</p><p>Laurent blinked. “Surely I misheard you,” he said slowly, “there was no mention of singing when we started this endeavour.”</p><p>Nikandros looked at him like he was a particularly recalcitrant cow. “You didn’t really think an Akielon piece would not involve singing.” He paused, took stock of Laurent’s face. “By the gods, you <em>did</em>.”</p><p>Laurent stared at him in mounting horror for a full twenty seconds before Nikandros’s face creased in a great smile and he burst out laughing. It was a loud, boisterous sound that filled the room. “Your face,” he managed between peals of laughter, apparently paying no attention to the murderous glare Laurent was shooting him, “you should have seen it.”</p><p>Laurent braced for the expected blades of regret and shame to pierce his gut and set his skin crawling – but they never came. Instead, he found his cheeks lifting, felt himself bare his teeth in something almost like a smile.</p><p>
  <strong>+</strong>
</p><p>“I risked treason for him.” The words jarred Laurent from the easy calm of their practice session. His fingers paused on the strings of their own accord. “I don’t know if he ever told you.” Nikandros was looking at him but seemed to be seeing something far away, beyond Laurent’s horizon. “I kept a pin with the crest of his house. A lion. Had Kastor found it, the punishment would have been death.”</p><p>The silence stretched for a long moment.</p><p>“No,” Laurent said. “He did not tell me.”</p><p>Nikandros shook his head. “I always thought my loyalty was to Theomedes. To the crown. If anyone had told me prior to Theomedes’ death that I would commit treason, I would have cut them down.” He paused. “Damen has a way of making people willing to do the unthinkable.”</p><p>Laurent looked at Nikandros. He looked down at the lyre in his lap. “Yes. He does.”</p><p>
  <strong>+</strong>
</p><p>“So,” Nikandros said some time later as they were once again sequestered in his chambers. He was sprawled in his customary chair as Laurent sat on the low bench idly strumming the lyre. “When are you going to play for him?”</p><p>Laurent didn’t miss a note on the strings. “I haven’t yet decided.”</p><p>“The solstice feast is coming up, is it not? What about then?”</p><p>“And demonstrate my aptitude for the entire court? I think not.”</p><p>But Nikandros just scowled. “Not in front of people,” he said as if Laurent had taken leave of his faculties, “afterwards.” Then, muttered belligerently: “The gods know I’ve heard enough of your playing to last me two lifetimes, and there’s no need to subject the rest of the court to that.”</p><p>“Ah,” Laurent said, “a private performance.” He watched with no small satisfaction as horror dawned in Nikandros’ eyes.</p><p>“Forget it. Forget I said that.”</p><p>“Tell me,” Laurent said leaning forward, “just how vocal do you think Damen will be in his appreciation of my musical talent? Will you hear it from your chambers, do you think?”</p><p>Nikandros had the haunted look of a man regretting every single one of his life choices. “I could happily go the rest of my life without hearing any more of his <em>appreciation</em> of your talents.”</p><p>“You think this is bad?” Laurent said. “Just wait until I ask you to teach me how to wrestle.”</p><p>Nikandros buried his head in his hands.</p><p>The eve of the solstice feast came upon them quickly. The combined Veretian and Akielon contingents of the castle filled the great hall with music and laughter and raucous cheers. Great long tables of solid oak were piled high with delicacies from across the new empire: rich lamb stew with new potatoes and boiled greens from northern Vere; grape leaves stuffed with rice and meat from Kesus; fresh loaves of bread and sweet, golden honey that was the pride of Ios; all washed down by honeyed mead and dark, rich wine from the foothills of the Patran border.  </p><p>Feasting was followed by drinking, then music, then more drinking. A space was cleared in the rushes and Ancel entered the hall, shimmering in wisps of green silk. The firelight from the lit torches he twirled caught the emeralds glinting at his ears and throat, the gold bangles dripping from each wrist and slender ankle. He made the fire whirl and dance in time to the music, moving so quickly he was nearly incandescent with it, until it was hard to tell where the gold-green blaze of Ancel ended and the fire began. Chancing a look to his left, Laurent caught sight of the expression on Berenger’s face and quickly looked away. Some things not even a king should be privy to.</p><p>After Ancel came Isander, a vision in a pearlescent white chiton with gold fringing that contrasted stunningly with his dark skin. A hush fell across the hall as he clasped his hands and began to sing, his clear, deep voice carrying through the warm air.</p><p><em>Some say an army of horsemen, others</em><br/>
<em>say foot soldiers, still others say a fleet</em><br/>
<em>is the finest thing on the dark earth.</em><br/>
<em>I say it is whatever one loves</em>
  <a id="return1" name="return1"></a>
  <a href="#note1">1</a>
</p><p>“The tale of Anaktoria,” Damen murmured beside him, breath a hot whisper against his neck.</p><p>Throughout the festivities, Laurent took care to play his part perfectly. He stayed close to Damen as they toured the room before dinner, leaning into his side or trailing a hand down his arm as they made the requisite rounds to the guests. He nudged his thigh against Damen’s under the table and felt it shake as Damen laughed at something Euandros said. Sipping from his goblet of water, Laurent surveyed the scene: the long tables cluttered with platters and empty goblets, the remains of the feast; the guests mingling, the severe clothing of the Veretian nobility contrasting with the gaudy ornamentation of their pets and the plain, stark tunics preferred by the Akielons. Off in a corner, Berenger was deep in conversation with Ancel, who was visible only as a flash of red hair and a pale hand on his lord’s shoulder. At the other end of the high table, Laurent could see Nikandros and Jord engaged in what looked to be a furious debate: Jord’s jaw was clenched and there was a flush high on his cheeks as he gestured violently. Nikandros’ back was turned but the tension in the rigid line of his shoulders was clearly visible.</p><p>Laurent raised his chin to Makedon, a clear summons. The powerfully built general made his way over to the dais, the crowd parting like a sea before him. He bowed in the Veretian custom, a quick bend from the waist. Laurent raised an eyebrow.</p><p>“It’s easier on my knees,” Makedon rumbled, and then: “If you tell anyone, I’ll kill you.” And then: “Your Majesty.”</p><p>“I shall take the knowledge to the grave,” Laurent assured him. He gestured with his goblet to the storm brewing between Nikandros and Jord. “I need you to separate them before they come to blows. We can’t afford petty fights this evening.”</p><p>“Fighting?” Makedon frowned. Then, at Laurent’s stormy expression: “Of course, Your Majesty. I have just the thing.” He disappeared before Laurent could reply.</p><p>“Griva!” The cry went up from a dozen throats like a call to arms not a minute later, and suddenly the hall was alight with noise and movement as guests thronged towards the giant barrels in the centre of the room. Curious Veretian courtiers pushed forward to sample the beverage that had solidified the bond between their King and the most senior general of Akielos. Jord and Nikandros seemed pacified by the griva; by the time Laurent caught sight of them again, they were both cradling goblets of the stuff. Even Damen was distracted, engaged in some no doubt inane conversation with Makedon that involved a ridiculous amount of laughter and an even more ridiculous amount of back-slapping – maybe they were comparing muscles. No one noticed when Laurent pushed back his chair and slipped from the hall.</p><p>It was a warm night. The muted sounds of revelry and cheer floated in through the open windows as Laurent entered his chambers. The air smelled of jasmine and fresh earth from the courtyard.  His footsteps were soft on the tiled floor as he moved through the solar to the bedchamber. Night had fallen, but he didn’t need light to see; the light from the full moon streamed in through the windows, saturating/soaking the room in hues of black and grey and midnight blue. Laurent knelt by the bed and groped blindly until his fingers brushed the edge of the chest he was looking for. He dragged it out slowly, careful not to scratch its smooth wood on the tiled floor, and placed it on the bedside table, opening the case gently. The lyre was just as he’d left it. (Maybe he had become slightly attached to the damn thing in the weeks spent learning it. Nikandros was never allowed to find out.)</p><p>There were no torches or lamps to guide him, but after weeks studying with Nikandros, Laurent no longer needed light to play by. He cradled the lyre in the crook of his arm, readied the small bone pick to the strings as he’d been taught, and began to play.</p><p>It was almost muscle memory at this point. Laurent recited the notes in his head as he plucked the strings. <em>First, fifth, middle. First, third, fifth.</em> A far cry from the clumsy fumbling of the first few weeks, now the notes flowed from each other smoothly, each sound rich and clear. <em>Take your time</em>, Nikandros’ voice echoed in his mind as he coaxed each sound from the taut strings, <em>let the song tell its story</em>.</p><p>He was so caught up in playing that he didn’t hear the door open. It was only as the final notes faded softly into the night that he noticed the familiar figure in the doorway.   </p><p>Laurent gaped. “You’re supposed to be at the banquet.”</p><p>Damen was staring at him like he’d never seen him before, and Laurent fought the urge to shift awkwardly where he sat. “I didn’t know –“ his eyes were wide, unguarded. In the silver glow of the moonlight he looked impossibly young. “How did you…?“</p><p>“Nikandros has been teaching me,” Laurent said softly, looking down at the instrument in his lap. The expression on Damen’s face was too much to bear. He heard rather than saw Damen step into the room.</p><p>A huffed breath that might have been a laugh. “That explains it. My father always said that was my mother’s favourite song.” A pause. “Nikandros would have known-”</p><p>“I asked.” Laurent interrupted before he could stop himself. “I asked for something that would – would hold meaning for you.” <em>Because I love you</em>. But his tongue turned traitor at the words and all he could do was lapse into silence.</p><p>Damen filled it for him. “We were both taught to play when we were boys,” he said. His gaze shifted to some faraway moment in time where Laurent could not follow. He imagined a young Damen, all awkward, coltish limbs, not yet grown into his height, painstakingly picking out notes on the lyre. “In truth, I had no skill for it,” Damen said, “but Nikandros was a natural.”</p><p>Laurent shook his head. “Don’t tell him that. He’ll be even more insufferable.” He heard Damen chuckle and some of the tension in his chest eased. “This wasn’t… how I envisioned this going,” he admitted.</p><p>“Oh?” Damen’s lips quirked up at the corners. Laurent could see his dimples in the soft moonlight. “How should it have gone?”</p><p>“With some more practice, I would have –“ <em>courted you</em>. The words turned to ash on his tongue. The tension was back in his chest, an ever-tightening coil constricting each breath. “Never mind.”</p><p>Damen eyed him shrewdly. “Does this have anything to do with the fact that Nikandros somehow convinced half the Veretian garrison to spar with me every week for the last month?”</p><p>“Of course not,” said Laurent. This, at least, was familiar footing. “That was an incentive for any of the men who still have mixed feelings about an Akielon king to see reason.”</p><p>“Reason?” Damen replied. “Is that what that was?” The glint of laughter in his dark eyes belied his disbelieving tone.</p><p>“Well, yes. The reason is that any dissidents would have to go up against…” Laurent sketched a hand towards Damen, the chiselled planes of him strong and glorious in the moonlight. “This.”</p><p>The light in Damen’s eyes shifted into something equal parts pleased and predatory. He made a show of rolling his shoulders, allowing Laurent to watch the rippling of muscle under dark skin.</p><p>Laurent’s mouth went dry. Something must have shown on his face because Damen stepped closer and laid one large hand overtop Laurent’s on the lyre. Laurent could feel his calluses, the warmth of his skin, and thought, Oh. And then, <em>Oh</em>.</p><p>And then Damen had moved the lyre and was in front of him, tilting Laurent’s head up with a gentle hand cradling his jaw; and then Damen was kissing him, tasting of the wine from dinner and of something warm and sweet; and then Laurent’s arms were around him, bunching his robes, caressing the scarred skin of his back; and the low, pleased noise he made at Laurent’s touch drove all thoughts from his head; and suddenly thinking wasn’t very important at all as Damen pressed him down into the soft sheets and wrung from him an entirely different sort of music.</p>
<ol>
<li><strong>Gifts</strong></li>
</ol><p>“You gave me a <em>horse</em>,” Laurent said exasperatedly, pacing the length of their bedchamber. “I don’t know why you won’t just accept the gift.”</p><p>Damen looked pained. “I don’t need another ceremonial brooch. Besides, we share them.”</p><p>Laurent very definitely did not pout. “But this one would be yours.”</p><p>“I have no need –“</p><p>“It’s not about need. I want you to have it.” A hot thread of anger was worming its way through Laurent’s chest, bright like molten metal. He ground his teeth down on the words that threatened to escape.</p><p>Damen looked down at the brooch cradled in his lap. The delicate silver inlay shot through with fine strands of gold depicted a star burning against a background so blue it was almost black; it was the unmistakable mark of the Veretian royal family. “Laurent-“ he said helplessly.</p><p>“It was Auguste’s.” The words wrenched themselves from his chest, jagged and brittle. “He would have. I believe he would have wanted you to have it.”</p><p>Auguste’s name hit like a physical blow and Laurent watched Damen’s expression shatter. His jaw clenched and unclenched as he worked to form words. “Forgive me,” he managed, “I didn’t know.” He looked up and his expression was a raw and open wound. “This is a great honour; I am –“</p><p>“If you say not worthy, I will start screaming.” Laurent hoped his paltry attempt at humour would hide how his voice trembled.</p><p>Damen picked up the brooch with newfound reverence. “I am humbled by this gift,” he said. His words were grave, formal, and Laurent saw in him the shouldering of this new knowledge. “I will endeavour to be worthy of it. Thank you.”</p><p>“You’re welcome. Was that so hard?” Laurent’s tone was clipped but Damen only smiled at him, bright and sweet, his earlier reserve gone. Laurent’s chest filled with warmth, eclipsing his earlier ire.</p><p>“It’s a wonderful gift,” Damen said, setting it aside and reaching up to card a hand through Laurent’s hair. “But it doesn’t compare to you.” He tugged gently and Laurent went, climbing onto the bed to straddle his thighs.</p><p>“One day,” Laurent informed him archly, “I will be old and wrinkled, and those lines will no longer work on me.”</p><p>Damen laughed. “And I will be just as old and just as wrinkled, and I will still mean them every time.”</p><p>“You’re impossible,” Laurent said, and kissed him. It wasn’t quite what he’d meant to say – the words still lingered; he could taste them under his tongue – but at Damen’s blinding smile, he figured the message had been received anyway.</p>
<ol>
<li><strong>Quality Time</strong></li>
</ol><p>“We have to stop meeting like this. The court will talk.”</p><p>“Laurent, the court already talks. It’s getting them to talk about anything else that is the challenge.”</p><p>Hidden in the darkness of the servants’ corridor, Laurent allowed himself a grin. It no longer took effort to smile. “Come on, then. Let’s get out of their hair.”</p><p>He turned and set off down the corridor, the worn leather of his riding boots soft against the flagstones. Damen followed a half-step behind; this was a derelict passage in the oldest part of the castle and the walls were not wide enough for them to walk abreast. Twice, they froze at the distant sound of footsteps from adjacent corridors, but each time the steps faded away and they made it to the age-worn wooden door without incident.</p><p>“Hoods up,” Damen said as they listened at the door. “Your hair would give us away anywhere.”</p><p>Laurent scoffed. “So would your biceps, you giant animal.” Warmth rose in him at Damen’s low chuckle.</p><p>“You flatter me.”</p><p>Laurent laid a hand on one of the arms in question. “Hardly.”</p><p>A pleased snort from his husband and the quiet shift of leather boots on stone were the only warnings before Laurent was being lifted up bodily and pressed into the wall, and Damen was kissing him within an inch of his life. Heat flooded his body, fire sparking under his skin like a fever, and he kissed back greedily. He lost himself in the touch and taste of Damen: soft lips, callused hands gently cradling his jaw, the sheer bulk of him pinning Laurent to the wall –</p><p>“Not here,” Laurent gasped, summoning every ounce of control as Damen moved to the ties at his throat. He batted Damen’s hands away, ignoring the pitiful sigh that elicited. “We have a mission.” He softened his rebuttal by taking one of Damen’s hands in his own and lacing their fingers together.</p><p>Damen stroked one thumb across his knuckles. “You still haven’t told me where we’re going.”</p><p>“You’ll see,” was all Laurent said before turning back to the door. If he looked at Damen now, with the taste of him still on his lips, they’d never make it out of the castle; the servants would probably find them hours later, still in this dark corridor albeit rather less clothed – it wouldn’t be the first time.</p><p>Pushing open the door, they peered into the courtyard. It was a hive of activity under the midmorning sun. Carts laden with bales of hay and wooden crates of food trundled laboriously across the hard-packed earth; the air rang with the clash and clang of metal from the training yards and the shouted orders of the steward overseeing the delivery of the myriad of supplies needed for the castle’s daily use. Laurent waited until a harried footman had passed them by, arms full of reams of fabric no doubt intended for the washerwomen, and then gestured to Damen behind him. “Let’s go.”</p><p>In their plain brown traveling cloaks, hoods pulled up to hide their hair – in Laurent’s case – and musculature – in Damen’s – they traversed the busy courtyard. Weaving among the veritable army of servants and merchants, Laurent snagged a basket of apples off the back of a dawdling cart; there was a grunt behind him and when he turned, Damen had been eclipsed by the bale of hay now resting in his arms. So laden, they escaped suspicion completely, just another pair of servants bound for the royal stables. As they came into view of the outer keep, Laurent spared a quick glance up to the ramparts but the soldiers there paid them no mind. Letting out a slow breath, he pushed open the solid wooden door to the stables and slipped inside, Damen right at his heels.</p><p>The monolith of the royal stables, with its vaulted arched ceilings, dominated the east side of the courtyard. Pushing inside, Laurent blinked as his eyes adjusted to the relative gloom after the blazing sun outside. The smell of hay and horse thickened the air, and the din from the courtyard was muffled by the sounds of equine life: the shifting of hooves in dirt, the rustle of hay, the occasional wicker and whinny. Half a dozen pairs of dark, curious eyes turned to Laurent as he made his way into the stables, moving briskly down the main aisle. Damen had put down the bale of hay and was wiping his hands on his tunic as he followed. Laurent kept his head down, ears alert for the sounds of any errant stablehands, but luck was on their side: they had only the horses for company right now.</p><p>Laurent reached the stall where his bay mare, Étoile, was waiting patiently. She eyed him with a look of mild reproach as he hopped nimbly over the gate. <em>You’re sneaking away again, aren’t you? </em>“Of course not,” Laurent said under his breath (he didn’t need Damen teasing him again about horse whispering). She snorted in reply but was easily distracted when he held out an apple from the pilfered basket. He let her crunch happily on the treat as he went about preparing her saddle bags and tack. Muscle memory, honed from long days riding with Auguste in his youth, guided him as he saddled her in quick, efficient movements. He looked over as he cinched the saddle girth round her midsection to see Damen in the adjacent stall, finishing up with his own mount, a sturdy, long-limbed palfrey with a fine grey coat. At Laurent’s nod, he vaulted up nimbly into the saddle and Laurent admired the swiftness of his actions, the surety of his foot in the stirrup, the ease of his hand on the pommel. For someone so powerfully built, Damen moved with a beguiling grace.</p><p>Saddled and ready, they trotted out of the stables. Laurent kept a careful eye on the guards patrolling the ramparts and standing near the gates, but they took no notice of the two brown-cloaked riders whose horses, albeit fine, sported worn leather tack and an air of drudgery that no unassuming eye would blink twice at.</p><p>“Good girl,” Laurent whispered in Veretian, patting Étoile’s neck.  He kept his knees nudged into her sides in the signal they’d spent long hours perfecting, the cue for her to turn her normal spirited gait into a slow, plodding shamble. She tossed her head and snorted hotly. “I know,” Laurent murmured, “we’re almost there.”</p><p>He kept his head down as they moved through the westernmost gate. It was the smallest and least obtrusive entrance to the keep, flanked by a mere two guards. Laurent let out an inner sigh of relief at the golden starburst emblazoned on their uniforms; the afternoon he’d spent committing the garrison’s shift changes to memory had paid off. Even over a year after the union of the two kingdoms, Veretian troops were still less likely to identify Damen based on his biceps alone. And speaking of – Laurent turned his head a fraction and had to smother the most un-kingly snort at the sight of Damen, shoulders hunched in the saddle, trying to make himself as unobtrusive as possible and mostly only succeeding at looking like a shy mountain in a cloak. Damen caught him looking. <em>This is ridiculous</em>, he mouthed, and Laurent had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing and giving the whole game away on the spot. He held his breath as they plodded past the guards, but needlessly – barely a glance was spared for him and Damen, and they passed through the gate without incident into the wide fields beyond.</p><p>The moment they were past the bailey and out of sight of the outer fortifications, Laurent dug his heels into Étoile’s sides and set her to cantering freely down the path. The long grass of the fields, studded here and there with dusky wildflowers, melted into a green and purple blur around him, and the wind streamed through his hair, wresting it from its braid and whipping it about his face. An indistinct shout and the sound of hooves behind him let him know that Damen was catching up and soon enough his husband came abreast of him, teeth flashing in a smile.</p><p>“Race you to the forest line!” Laurent yelled before he could get a word in, and without giving Damen time to process the challenge, broke into a full gallop with a whoop of delight. He leaned forward over Étoile’s neck, thighs tensing with the rise and fall of her gait as she fairly flew down the road. For a moment, everything melted away; he was not Laurent of Vere, but simply Laurent; there was no kingdom to rule, no councils to appease, no populace to defend – there was simply the air whipping through his hair, the sunlight heating his skin, the thunder of Étoile’s hooves on the hard-packed earth.</p><p>“That was underhanded,” Damen said, smiling, as they slowed to a walk under the thick canopy of the forest.</p><p>Laurent tossed his hair in a loose imitation of a pampered pet. “You’re just saying that because I won,” he replied archly. “Besides, I’m Veretian. Underhanded is my middle name.”</p><p>Damen’s answering bark of laughter startled a flock of birds into flight. Leaves swirled down through the air as they burst through the canopy, momentarily filling the forest with raucous cries.</p><p>“Come,” Laurent said as the last of the cawing died away, “there’s a ways to go yet.”</p><p>He turned and led them through a dense tangle of trees, where the slight markings of a hunters’ path could just be made out among the undergrowth. Leaves brushed against his face, and more than once he had to pull his hair free of a questing branch, much to Damen’s amusement if the soft huffs of laughter were anything to go by. Once, Laurent might have flinched from the laughter, reviled it, felt the cold sickness of anger curdling in his gut at the sound – but that was years, ages, a lifetime ago; and now it only filled him with warmth, made his heart turn over in his chest and brought an answering smile to his own lips even as he ruefully carded his leaves from his hair for the umpteenth time.</p><p>After several minutes of riding, the faint path markings disappeared altogether. Laurent paused by the trunk of a large oak, resting one palm lightly on the rough bark. Overhead, birds chattered in the rustling leaves. A soft gust of wind pushed through the trees, bringing with it the scent of fresh, damp earth. Laurent closed his eyes and turned his face towards it, letting memory guide him. How long had it been, now? Years? But when he took Etoile’s reins again and pointed her over a mound of twisting gnarled roots and beneath the fallen trunk of a moss-covered tree, everything came rushing back. Here was the jagged boulder looming over a long-abandoned fox den. There, the old birch tree with the one gnarled branch pointing northward like a crooked finger. If he closed his eyes, he could almost picture Auguste riding straight-backed in front of him, the sunlight shining off his hair in a golden halo.</p><p>“I used to come this way with my brother,” the words slipped from Laurent’s mouth surprising them both. “Many years ago, now. It was our secret hideaway.”</p><p>He didn’t turn but he could feel Damen’s gaze on him, a warm and heavy weight. “I look forward to seeing it.”</p><p>Laurent waited for the hurt to bloom in his chest, the ache he was so accustomed to that feeling it was almost second nature; it never arrived. Instead, the thought of sharing this secret with Damen sent a tingle of anticipation shifting under his skin. He nudged Étoile forward.</p><p>They broke through a small gap between two slender birches and entered a small clearing. Here, the trees’ green canopy parted overhead, revealing a crown of blue sky looking down on soft grass. Laurent dismounted in a fluid movement, landing lightly on the grass. He looped Étoile’s reins around a low branch and stepped into the clearing, spreading his arms. “Here we are.”</p><p>Damen loosed the cinches on his own horse’s saddle and looked around. The sounds of the forest were softer here, broken only by the quiet burble of a small stream that ran though the clearing, water bubbling merrily over smooth rocks. The air was filled with the rich scent of the honeysuckle and lavender plants dotted among the grass. “This is truly idyllic.”</p><p>Laurent reached for his hand. “I know. I used to feel like… like the world could never get us here.”</p><p>Damen’s face did something funny as their fingers interlaced: a slight raising of his brows, a faint parting of his lips. He opened his mouth soundlessly. Closed it again. After a moment he spoke. “I am…” he paused. He spoke deliberately. “Honoured to be here. Thank you for sharing this with me.”</p><p>Warmth bloomed in Laurent’s chest, but before he could reply Damen was tugging on his hand, pulling him in to capture his lips in a sweet kiss. When they broke apart Damen’s face was creased in a smile which broke into a laugh as he looked at Laurent.</p><p>“What is it?” Laurent asked a trifle testily.</p><p>Damen was already reaching for him. “The forest left you a souvenir. There are leaves in your hair.” He carded his fingers through Laurent’s hair to remove the offending object, and even this gesture was filled with impossible tenderness.</p><p>Laurent tossed his head, willing his heart to slow its rapid beating. He tried to find words, but between the kiss and the gentleness of Damen’s hands in his hair, found that speech eluded him. Wordlessly he turned and moved back towards the horses, undoing the clasp on Étoile’s saddlebags and busying himself unloading their contents.</p><p>Damen moved to help him and grinned when he saw what Laurent was holding. “You thought of everything, didn’t you?”</p><p>Laurent allowed himself the slightest smile in return. “I thought that was one of my charms. Besides, I can’t have my husband wasting away.”</p><p>“It is,” Damen assured him seriously, with the fervidity of someone who had not only missed the intended sarcasm but had waved it merrily on its way.</p><p>They made short work of unloading the saddlebags: an old blanket Laurent had pilfered from the storeroom was spread out across the grass, and there they sat to enjoy a simple meal of fresh bread, tangy cheese and the rich, golden honey from the south of Akielos, all washed down by sweet Veretian wine.  Conversation flowed easily and sweetly between them as they ate until at last they lay on their backs on the blanket, legs entangled, staring up at the wide blue sky above. The blanket smelled rather like horse, but with Damen a warm presence beside him, not even the oldest, mustiest blanket could dampen the deep contentment of the moment.</p><p>“I can see why you and Auguste would come here,” Damen said at last. His voice blended with the quiet rustling of the breeze through the trees. Laurent could see in his eyes what he was imagining: a peaceful world, with no war, no poison, no bloodshed, no betrayal; and the knowledge he would suffer it all again to be with Laurent.</p><p>Laurent shifted on the blanket to better regard him. “Better than a council meeting?”</p><p>“I’d stay here all day if I could.”</p><p><em>Me too,</em> Laurent wanted to say, <em>I’d stay anywhere as long as you were with me. I love you.</em> He gritted his teeth, tried to force the words from his throat. No sound came.</p><p>Damen was eyeing him with no small amount of concern as Laurent’s silence stretched on. “What is it?”</p><p>It was a Herculean effort to unlock his jaw. “Nothing.” It came out sharper than he had intended and Laurent once again cursed the years spent honing himself to poison rather than poetry. Kindness, it seemed, was still not a virtue he possessed.</p><p>And yet even as Damen subsided there was a knowing look in his eyes, and Laurent thought that maybe he understood – even without words.</p><p>     <strong>+ I.   The Finest Thing</strong></p><p>The candles were lit. The windows were open, letting in the fragrant breeze from the gardens, scents of orange blossom and hibiscus mingling with the salty smell of the sea. The sun was just starting to set, and it cast long golden rays into the room, making it look like something out of a fairy tale. Laurent adjusted the rose petals on the bedspread for the hundredth time and fought the urge to bite his nails. Was this too much? Surely he was taking this whole thing too far and Damen would only mock him.</p><p>But no. Even as the thought crossed his mind, Laurent dismissed it. He remembered the look in Damen’s eyes as he had seen the flowers, as they had lain together in the secret clearing. His heart was safe in Damen’s hands.</p><p>Still. It was easy to be nervous. He had done this only once before: back at the inn, so many lifetimes ago now. He remembered the pathetic pile of blankets near the fire, how he could still feel the wooden floorboards digging into his back when Damen had entered the room – and the look on Damen’s face, at once euphoric and disbelieving, at seeing him there. This was so far from that moment, and yet the feelings remained. <em>This is too good to be true</em>, Damen’s eyes had said that night. Laurent had felt an answering sentiment shivering in his chest. <em>Surely people like you do not happen to people like me.</em></p><p>And yet – here they were.</p><p>Laurent was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he didn’t hear the door opening. He was unaware of Damen’s approach until strong arms wrapped around him.</p><p>“Unhand me, you giant animal.” It was a poor attempt at annoyance ruined further when Laurent turned into the embrace and stood on his tiptoes for a kiss which Damen returned enthusiastically.</p><p>“Giant animal,” Damen repeated when they broke apart and Laurent felt his rumble of laughter in his own chest. He was grinning in the way that brought out his dimples, and Laurent fought against the urge to reach out and touch. But then he thought – why not? If this was the night for bravery, for truth, why should he deny himself the pleasure of watching his husband smile? He reached up and placed a hand on Damen’s cheek. Damen smiled as Laurent knew he would, broad and slow and sweet, and turned his head to press a chaste kiss to Laurent’s palm. Then he stood back and looked around at the glimmering candles, the artful arrangement of rose petals on the bed. Laurent watched him take it all in and rolled his eyes.</p><p>“If I had planned an ambush you’d be dead by now because you couldn’t take your eyes off me.”</p><p>Damen ignored the jibe. “Is there some special occasion I’ve forgotten?” He was still holding Laurent’s hand.</p><p>“No.” It came out more acerbic than he intended but at least the sharpness could conceal his nervousness. Hopefully. He relented at the crease of confusion in Damen’s brow. “You didn’t forget our anniversary, if that’s what you’re wondering.”</p><p>“Then… what is it?”</p><p>“Surely you can guess,” Laurent snapped, patience worn thin by the strange apprehension that curdled in his belly. He immediately rebuked himself at the wounded expression that flickered on Damen’s face. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”</p><p>“It’s alright,” Damen said gently. “I just want to understand.” His thumb traced slow circles across Laurent’s knuckles, an instinctive movement Laurent wasn’t sure he realized he was doing. He hoped Damen couldn’t feel how clammy his palm was.</p><p>He forced himself to speak. “This isn’t for a specific occasion,” he repeated. Picking each word was like stepping along the edge of a cliff. “But having exhausted all other options I am unsure how else to proceed.”</p><p>Damen was frowning at him, lips pursed in thought. He looked to the rose-strewn bed and then to Laurent, who fought the urge to break his gaze. Then like the sun appearing from behind the clouds, a look of understanding dawned on his face. He laughed, delighted and incredulous. “Laurent,” he said, “are you wooing me?”</p><p>“I-“ Laurent tried to force his face into an appropriately neutral expression but knew it was ruined by the colour he could feel high on his cheeks. Suddenly, looking at Damen was an impossibility; he flung his gaze outward, through the wide window towards the horizon, where the setting sun was gilding the tops of the waves with golden light. It was a moment before he could trust his voice. “You have always done so much for me. I was simply returning the favour.”</p><p>When he looked back, Damen was frowning. “I do things for you not as favours,” he said, agitation plain in his voice. “If this is some sort of – of transaction –“</p><p>“You misunderstand,” Laurent wasn’t sure where he’d gone wrong; all he knew was the urge to smooth the pained crease in Damen’s brow. Something tugged harshly in his chest behind his ribs. “It’s not out of obligation,” he nearly spat the word, before forcing his voice back down to a softer register, “the books, the flowers, all of it – I love you,” he said, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I love you, and this is – You said you wished you could have courted me properly. Did it not occur that I would like to have done the same?”</p><p>Risking a look up, he saw Damen’s conflicted expression melt into something else altogether. His dark eyes were wide, and his lips were parted in a soft O as he stared at Laurent. The tenderness in his eyes was almost too much to bear. “I love you too,” he said, and Laurent shivered at the depth of emotion in his voice.</p><p>“I love you,” Laurent said again because he had to make sure Damen knew, had to make him understand. “I love you. I’m sorry it took me so long to say it.”</p><p>“Don’t be silly,” Damen’s eyes were soft, his voice full of deep affection, “you’ve been saying it all along.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>[<a id="note1" name="note1">1</a>]Isander's song (as well as the title of the fic) is from <a href="https://genius.com/Sappho-some-say-an-army-of-horsemen-fragment-16-lyrics">Sappho's Fragment 16</a>. [<a href="#return1">return to text</a>]</p><p>Alternate title for this fic: "My Big Gay Lamen Feelings 2k20". This fic kicked my ass (lbr this whole year kicked my ass; I don't know anyone whose ass <i>hasn't</i> been kicked by 2020) but it was also the sorely needed fluff and happiness that got me through this fall. I'm just so soft for them. It was also a great chance to explore Laurent's POV and to thereby spoil Damen with affection. I'm really grateful to have been able to participate in this year's FTH. Thanks once again to Jana for the lovely prompt!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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